


5 Time John Gushed about Sherlock, and 1 Time Sherlock Gushed about John.

by LiviKate



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Awkwardly Emotional Sherlock, BAMF John, Confessions, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Fluff enough to drown in, Fluffy, Fluffy to the extreme, Honesty, Hospital, Hostage Situations, John Loves Sherlock, John's Scar, Kissing, M/M, Pride in a Relationship, Scar, love making, so fluffy i could die
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-13
Updated: 2013-08-25
Packaged: 2017-12-23 08:06:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/923913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiviKate/pseuds/LiviKate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John never had a problem extolling the wonders of his lover, always eager to tell people what a great man he really is, always willing to defend him to the last. Sherlock, on the other hand, lost all eloquence of speech when it came to discussing these new emotions he's been feeling. but when his love is challenged, perhaps Sherlock will find the words to show John, and everyone, just how much he could really feel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. He is Brilliant

1.

                John took a breath, back pressed against the wall at the mouth of the alley. He kept himself calm and focused, struggling for a cool head as he prepared for action. He couldn’t help but draw a parallel to one of countless missions in Afghanistan; the smell of sweat, gun oil and desperation clung to him. A deep breath of the heady sent triggered another rush of adrenaline through the soldier’s blood, quelling the surge of angry fear at hearing Sherlock grunt in pain on the opposite side of the wall he leaned against.

With steady hands and steady nerves, John whipped around the corner, immediately identifying his target and aiming for a head shot with cool, clinical precision. The second John was in sight, Sherlock stopped struggling. He knew the best he could do was give John a clean shot, and struggling to get free would only complicate things. John was here and, for the first time, Sherlock was comfortable in believing that someone else would take care of something he couldn’t. But only because it was John.

The kid holding Sherlock was just that; a kid. Twenty years old, tops. Clearly an addict; shaking and twitching, eyes red and wild. He held a long and wicked knife to Sherlock’s throat. Sherlock had known him in his previous life, they had bought from the same guy. But Sherlock had gotten out, gotten clean. It was evident that this kid had not.

“Let him go,” John commanded, his voice dark, deep and unwavering, that of an Army captain who had done this before.

“And if I don’t?” The youth shouted in Sherlock’s ear. He was about Sherlock’s height and wrapped in the wiry, desperate kind of strength that John knew was the most dangerous kind. Sherlock stood rigid in his grasp, blood rolling down his face from his curls, dripping into one half-lidded eye. Fury gripped John’s heart, blooming like an infection across his chest, down his arm and straight to the finger poised against the trigger, and John’s lips curled into a snarl at seeing his best friend and occasional lover bleeding with a knife to his throat.

“Let. Him. Go,” John said again, his voice relaying a steady calm he no longer felt.

“Why? What does he mean to this stupid world? What’s he got to give anyone? What makes him special?!” The kid shouted, clearly unstable. “I know this sonofabitch, he’s nothing but a user like me! A cokehead with posh clothes and a pretty mouth.”  The muscles in his arm bunched and tightened, bringing the knife closer to Sherlock’s skin, coaxing out a single drop of blood.

To John, the little drop looked huge and glaring against Sherlock’s smooth, pale skin. That blemish, that blood that should never reach this side of Sherlock’s skin, along with the fearless, bold look in his glorious eyes, pushed John that one step he needed. That blood told him Sherlock could be leaving his world tonight. And that look in his eyes told him that there could not be a more tragic happening. Something snapped within John, and though his gun never wavered, he changed tactics, not even knowing he was doing it until the words were spilling out of his mouth. This deranged kid needed to know what he was doing, what his actions could cost this world.

“You want to know what he is? What makes him special?” John asked. “Everything. Everything he is makes him special,” he said with certainty, launching into speech, words tumbling out before he even had a chance to think about them. All true, all real, and all while aiming his weapon dead at the fucker’s forehead. “There’s not a bit of him that this world has ever seen before. He’s the face in the moon and the light of the stars on a cloudy night; dark and silver and shinning. He’s bright and he sees everything, but only a few of us, who see but don’t observe, only some of us ever get even a glimpse of who he is. And even those who take the leap, who brave the danger and make their way up to him, even if they reach him in the stars they will never even know half of all that he is.

“But he sees us. He sees us in full and there isn’t a corner of this earth or your life that his light can’t reach. He’s cold and he’s distant and no one has the faintest idea why he does it but he rises every night to take care of this boring, filthy world. He’ll either hunt you or save you, and there is no where he can’t find you. And most of us hate him for it, because he knows everything about you and you will never know anything about him and that is the scariest thing a human can face. He is proud and strong and beautiful and everything we normal people want to be.”

“Why?!” the addict shouted, voice cracking, his anger and angst having been stoke higher and high at each of John’s words. He tensed up further, digging the blade dangerously into the skin of Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock, however, seemed utterly unconcerned by the feral man-child playing keep-away with his life. Wide and clear, eyes glued to his soldier, he experienced all sorts of uncomfortable emotions.

“Why is he all of that?” the kid yelled again, spittle flying, some landing in Sherlock’s hair. “Why does he have you? What did he do to deserve a friend? To deserve love like that? It’s not fair! He was nothing, just like me! Nothing!” his voice broke, sounding more and more unhinged with each syllable. “He was just like me when we were lying in an alley like this, strung out and fucked up, laying in dirt and rubbish and piss. And he just gets to get up and walk away?! What makes him better than me?!” The youth shook with desperation, so close to cracking, John could see the fissures.

“You know what makes him better?” John asked, just waiting for the first piece to fall. “Better than this whole sodden planet?” The kid shivered, daring John to finish, daring John to break him. And John knew how. “You want to know what makes him more than you’ll ever be?”

He answered with the most honest, sure answer he had.

                “He is brilliant.”

                Something about the reverence in the soldier’s voice, something about the way he spoke, full of faith and love, stabbed deep and shook hard in the deranged youth’s heart. His face contorted as each wave of emotion crashed through him. Despair, shame, loathing and finally, cruelty. Realizing what Sherlock had, in his life, his future and his soldier, this kid knew he’d never have any of that. Overcome with hate and jealousy, and wanting nothing more than to take away, take away all he couldn’t have from someone who had it.

                He raised his elbow, tensed and ready, and prepared to drag the blade clenched in his hand across Sherlock’s throat.

                The shot rang out, loud in the tense silence. The knife and the boy dropped with a clatter and a thump, a perfect circle of blood and flesh exposed in the center of his forehead.

John lowered his gun, face unchanged and breathing regular. Suddenly he could hear sirens, and he wondered how long they’d been within earshot and how long until they were here. Sherlock stared at John, wide-eyed and blank-faced as blood continued to run over his skin. IN seconds John had the safety on, gun tucked away and was at Sherlock’s side, grabbing his arm and pulling him out of the alley.

When they reached the mouth of the alley, John made Sherlock sit under a streetlight, awaiting the nearing sirens. John’s hands were quick and professional as he assessed Sherlock’s injuries. Pushing dark, wet curls aside, John could see the wound on Sherlock’s head was mostly superficial; he’d be fine with rest, water and headache medicine. He checked him over: cut on throat, thin, already clotting, scrapes on the heels of his hands from hitting the ground, bruised ribs, twisted ankle. Nothing that wouldn’t heal in two weeks tops.

Satisfied to his physical health, John studied Sherlock’s face. For the first time since they’d met, through all the dangerous they’d fought together, this was the first time Sherlock actually looked in shock. He shivered every time John so much as brushed his hand against him and he didn’t speak a single word. He watched John in the most complete silence John had ever heard. His eyes were wide, and never looked anywhere but John’s face.

Before a word could be spoken or an explanation made, the whole street was illuminated with blue and white lights and Lestrade was by their side in seconds.

“Kid in the alley,” John said, eyes glued to Sherlock’s. “He had a knife to Sherlock’s throat, I had to,” he said simply, businesslike. “Safety’s on, here,” and he handed over his gun. Lestrade took it, stunned at dealing with the Captain Watson he had never met before.

“He alright?” he asked gruffly, gesturing to Sherlock who was uncharacteristically silent and immobile.

“Fine,” John said firmly, reaching out to grab his arm. “I’m taking him home.” Not a question. But, always respectful when due, John continued with; “We’ll be at the Yard tomorrow for full reports.”

“Right, sure,” the Detective Inspector said as John began to led Sherlock home. They were halfway down the street and Sherlock had yet to recover his regular swagger. Even from the distance, Lestrade could see it, and it worried the man more than he’d ever tell Sherlock. “Hey, John!” he called after them. John turned back to look at him. “Take care of him, then?”

“Yes sir,” John returned, without a single trace of sarcasm. “I will.” And then, privately, just for Sherlock to hear him, “Always.”

 

 

 

After a long and completely silent cab ride, the pair trudged up the stairs of 221B Baker Street. Sherlock’s shocked look had faded into one of fierce, introspective contemplation. John planted him at the kitchen table and set about making tea. His hands didn’t shake as the adrenaline metabolized in his blood, he didn’t crash after the stress, he didn’t panic. He simply made tea.

And all the while, Sherlock watched him. His face guarded and closed, nut his eyes glued to John. John cleared his throat and set Sherlock’s tea in front of him.

“Drink,” he said, Soldier John fading into Doctor John almost seamlessly. Almost. Sherlock caught a single quiver of worry before John was back to being a professional. Sherlock didn’t want Doctor John. Or Soldier John. He wanted the John from the alley. Not the one who shot the boy and saved his life. No, Sherlock wanted the John that called him the moon.

As John turned around, likely to grab some sort of food Sherlock would not eat, Sherlock’s hand flashed out, wrapping snuggly around John’s wrist. It was the first time they touched without Sherlock shivering from the overload of information.

“Sit, please,” Sherlock said, his voice soft and quiet like John had never heard it before.

“You’re in shock, you need sugar, I’m making you food,” Doctor John insisted.

“Tea, I have tea, I will be fine,” Sherlock urged, tugging on his wrist. “If you sit,” He said by qualification. Doctor John sighed heavily and sat down across from Sherlock, watching him carefully and studying his reactions. Sherlock did not want Doctor John. He wanted his John.

His hand still wrapped around John’s hand, he pulled it to his face, brushing his cheek into the calloused palm before pressing a kiss into the soft skin of his wrist. Doctor John fell from John’s face like ice off a rooftop, and left behind was a scared, worried and loving John.

“Hello,” Sherlock whispered into the skin of John’s hand.

“Hey,” John breathed back, his fingers coming to life and stroking Sherlock’s face. Sherlock’s eyes closed, leaning into John’s caress. “I’m glad you’re back,” he said softly. “I was worried I’d need to get you a shock blanket.”

Sherlock understood it was a joke. But he didn’t laugh. He couldn’t think of anything except what John had said to a stranger in that alley.

“Did you mean it?” he asked, never one for small talk if he had something important on his mind.

“Every word,” John said without hesitation.

“Every word?” Sherlock asked, knowing he was repeating, something he loathed in others, but couldn’t help himself now.

“Of course, Sherlock,” John said, care evident in his voice.

“What if I don’t want to be all the things you said I am,” Sherlock asked in a small voice, not looking into the eyes of his blogger, hating that he wanted to rewrite John’s biography of him.

He wanted to be perfect for John. Because John was perfect for him. He had realized that in that when the druggie dropped dead at his feet and for the first time in his life he felt taken care of, safe under the protection of another. John gave that to him, and he wanted to give john something in return. He suspected John might love him. And while he would need further examination of his own feelings to confirm or deny reciprocation, he had a multitude of new and strange emotions running rampant through her head and his chest felt oddly stricken even though he could think of no valid medical reasoning.

“What did I say wrong?” John asked, concern creasing his face, making him look tired and weathered. Sherlock didn’t want to do that to him.

“I don’t want to be cold and distant,” Sherlock confessed in a whisper, eyes closed. His confessions were easier to give when he didn’t have to look at John’s face. He knew he was missing priceless information by not observing John as he spoke, but he knew he had to say what he had to say independent of how John would react. That’s how John had spoken in the alley and that’s how Sherlock would speak now. John had been brave and bold, and Sherlock couldn’t even open his eyes for fear of what he might see, but John was used to this and Sherlock was ashamed to admit he was very afraid.

“I want you to know me,” Sherlock said, trying to gather his thoughts, but his eloquence and vocabulary had fled him along with his pride and bravery. “We’ve been physically intimate for 5 weeks and 3 days tonight, and while we had mutually arranged to keep the relationship friendly, I am finding myself strangely uncomfortable with the situation.”

“Sherlock--,” John began, but Sherlock squeezed his hand and he stopped talking. Sherlock took a deep breath. John had listened thus far; it was all or nothing now.

“I would like to expand our friendship and sexual relationship into an exclusive romantic one.” That was all he could manage, and he hoped it would be enough. He opened his eyes and looked over into John’s. They were big and blue and wonderful and, if eyes could smile, John’s would be.

“I would like that, too,” He said simply, pulling Sherlock into a kiss.


	2. He is Brave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not all chapters will be of the same length, this one is even a tad short compared to the first. Sherlock is injured in the arrest of a suspect, and John had trouble dealing with how careless Sherlock can be with his own life.

2.

John seethed in the uncomfortable chair. The sterile smell of a hospital had long ago ceased to faze him—not the smell of blood and chemicals reminded John more of the kitchen at home than St. Bart’s. Countless times Sherlock and John had stumbled home, battered and bleeding after a case, John’s careful, practiced hands stitching them up on the kitchen table. That’s how tonight would’ve ended, had Sherlock gotten his way. However, much to Sherlock’s dismay, John stubbornly believed a knife to the chest was cause for a hospital visit.

He had bitched the entire ride here and all through anything anyone had had to say or do to him. After finally getting cleaned and patched up, John gifted him his Blackberry once again, and Sherlock settled into a sulking silence, tapping passive-aggressively at his tiny keyboard. John sat by his bed, quietly stewing in his rage, staring hard at the opposite wall, unable to look at Sherlock as he struggled to keep a lid on his emotions.

“You’re angry,” Sherlock stated, not even looking up from his phone.

“Obviously,” John said through gritted teeth. “You got yourself stabbed in the chest.” Sherlock merely scoffed.

“The idiot hit a rib,” he said offhandedly, looking over to John so he could fully appreciate his dramatic eye roll. “Besides,” he continued, looking back to the phone in his hands. “I had a doctor with me. Quick treatment and adequet stitching—It probably won’t even scar. I don’t even—“

John cut him off furiously.

“Don’t even need to be here. I know, you’ve said so.”

“Which begs the question, John, as to why I am still here,” Sherlock snapped, anxious to get himself and his doctor back home. “We caught the murderer, he rolled on his accomplices, we saved the hostage and closed the case. What more do you want?” Sherlock’s exasperation was palpable and he seemed utterly unperturbed by and unaware of the stitches in his skin and the bandages around his chest. John stared at him, mouth agape with angry disbelief. Sherlock followed John’s gaze to the red line of seeping blood staining the white gauze over his heart. With a heavy, bored sigh, Sherlock spoke again.

“Don’t worry about the cut,” he said. “I’ll still have sex with you when we get home, you don’t need to act so put out.”

“You think that’s why I’m upset?!” John cried, rising to his feet, knocking his chair backwards, his voice echoing too loud in the small room. “You think I, mad because I have to go a night without a decent shag?!”

“Why else would you be so angry with me?” Sherlock countered. “I saved a life today, caught a killer and got stabbed! All in 6 hours! And you’re angry with me!”

“Of course I’m angry with you, you stupid tosser!” John yelled. “You got fucking stabbed!”

“And it’s done little to diminish my sex drive, so there’s no reason why we cannot keep with our post-case routine, and no reason for you to be upset at me,” Sherlock said with pompous self-confidence, his nose turned up and his attention directed back to his phone. The argument, in his mind, was over with and he had won.

“Fucking hell,” John shouted, his hands in his hair, not being able to take another second of Sherlock’s indifference. He stalked across the room, tore the door open and slammed it harshly behind him.

John walked quickly but randomly throughout the hospital, needing the movement to help clear his head. He was a powder keg of emotions; anger, hurt, fear, desperation and rage. He had no idea which might rear its head next. His phone buzzed, a text from Lestrade, asking to meet in the waiting room closest to Sherlock’s room. Running a hand through his hair, John turned and made his way quickly to where the perpetually stressed silver-haired man would be waiting.

John had just reached him, the Detective Inspector giving him a small, reassuring smile, when a hand tapped him tentatively on the shoulder.

“Doctor Watson?” said the woman belonging to the hand; Kirsty, John’s brain supplied, good nurse, worked quick, kind hearted.

“Yes?” he asked, not having to strive for a tired tone of voice.

“The man you came in with? Your… partner?” she said carefully, studying his face for guidance. John simply leveled a no nonsense look at her and she quickly continued. “He’s asking for you.”

“Oh yeah?” John asked, sneering. “What else did he say, exactly?” Kristy’s cheeks colored and she averted eye contact before answering.

“He said that if you were so keen on a shag, you shouldn’t have stormed out.”

“Oh for the love of—look, you can go tell him he can go fuck himself,” John snapped, ignoring the shocked expressions worn by both the nurse and Lestrade.

“Sir, he’s been badly hurt tonight,” Kirsty said, seemingly scandalized.

“And it’s his own BLOODY FAULT!” John shouted at her, sending her skittering away, tail between her legs.

“Come take a seat John, I think you need to calm down a little,” Greg said, a friendly hand on John’s shoulder. John considered rounding on the man, but when he met his concerned gaze, all the fight left him on a hard exhale. John could tell Greg was worried about Sherlock too, and didn’t want him having to worry about him as well. Lestrade didn’t like to show it, but he cared for Sherlock, seeing him almost as a younger brother, like he was responsible for him. Seeing him throwing himself at a man wielding a knife wasn’t any easier for the officer than it had been for the doctor.

John sighed as he and Greg dropped into the poor smelling and ugly chairs in the otherwise empty waiting room. He covered his face with his hands, trying to get a handle on the swirl of emotions churning within him.

“Why does he do it?” Lestrade asked after several moments of silence.

“What?” John asked, too tired to answer any question requiring speculation or context.

“Endanger himself like that?” his friend elaborated. “Fucking prick is going to get himself killed doing stupid shit like what he pulled today.” John sighed, slumping farther into his seat.

“He’s The Work,” John said sadly, staring blankly at the wall opposite him. “When he’s on a case, everything else is transport. His body, his health, even his life. He just doesn’t care what happens to him, because it’s not about him. Contrary to popular belief, Sherlock doesn’t take these cases just to show off. He does it because he fully and truly loves it. It matters to him, catching the criminal, solving the puzzle. It’s his way of contributing to this stupid world he half hates. He’s too dedicated, too damn obsessed and way too bloody brave.

“He’ll never do anything other than this. He’ll do it until it kills him. Can you imagine doing what he does? The bravery, the courage he has, to throw himself into dangers path, for no other reason than to hold tight to the feeling of being right and saving the day. He has no idea how important he is. No idea how much he matters. He doesn’t know what it does to me, what it does to you, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, even fucking Mycroft, to see him act so bloody stupid, treating his life like it doesn’t even matter. He doesn’t know how much it hurts to her him hurt. And he’s much too fucking brave to stop getting himself hurt. He’ll never know, and he’ll never learn.”

 John let his head loll listlessly to the side to look at Greg, too tired so much else. He felt so horribly tired. Sherlock was sucking the life out of him with all his goddamn courage.

“He had to ask me why I was so angry tonight. He doesn’t even understand how much I care.” John stood up again, anger sweeping back through him when he thought back to the careless expression Sherlock wore, even as he sat in a hospital bed. “Bloody tosser thought I was mad because I wouldn’t get a good shag tonight!” John said, shaking with fury. Finally fed up, wishing it was Sherlock’s stupid self-assured face, John swung his fist into the wall. Greg jumped, startled, checking to be sure the room was still empty as plaster dust plumed around John.

John sunk back down into his chair, anger fading once again as his hand began a dull throb. His metabolizing adrenaline contributing to the violent swing of his mood, finally leaving him absolutely emotionally drained. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, hands hanging limply down, eyes blankly glued to the floor between his feet.

“He’s the dumbest, bravest, most devoted man I know. His body’s transport because his Work is his heart. And as much as it fucking kills me to see him hurt, seeing him on a case makes me love the prat even more every goddamn time.”


	3. He does Care

3.

“Molly, do tell, are you intentionally trying to be insufferable today?” Sherlock asked cooly, glaring at the poor, blushing girl from over the microscope.

“Wha... But…” Molly stuttered, shocked and hurt at Sherlock’s unbidden remarks. She looked to John for help, for an explanation as to what she’d done wrong this time. He could only shrug sadly, prompting more broken words to tumble from Molly’s mouth.

“Oh, lovely, more unhelpful stuttering. I swear, I cannot think of a single asset your presence brings.”

Sherlock didn’t see the tears budding in Molly’s eyes, as he was back to concentrating a=on the slide he had up. He didn’t look up when she excused herself and he didn’t look up when she ran from the lab. He only looked up when the comforting heat of John at his back vanished. Looking up, he saw John’s broad, strong back as he strode towards the door.

“Where are you going?” Sherlock asked John’s retreating figure, already missing the closeness of his blogger. Not that anyone could persuade him to say as much.

“I'm going to go talk to her,” John said, like it should be obvious.

“But why?” Sherlock asked, stopping his work to turn towards John. “We’re working, I need you here.”

“No, you’re working, you know I’m no help with this stuff,” John tossed over his shoulder as he continued making his way across the room.

“John, this is important,” Sherlock said, his tone overly impatient to mask the pleading he felt deep inside.

“So is Molly, Sherlock.”

“John, I'm trying to catch a killer, I need full concentration!”

“Good, I won’t be around to distract you then.  Text me if you leave, I’ll meet you on your way out,” John said as he pushed open the door, leaving a despondent detective behind.

Sherlock stared for a moment at where John had just stood. He took a breath and brushed off the sentiment he felt clinging to his jacket, trying to wiggle its way in. He turned back to the scope, face hardened with resolve as he told himself not to be distracted by the empty, numb feeling caused by the absence of a certain Army doctor.

Outside and down the hall, John found Molly leaning against the wall. Picking at the hem of her lab coat. John cringed at the sniffle that seemed all too loud and lonely in the otherwise silent corridor.

                “Molly, you know he didn’t mean it like that,” John began.

                “When doesn’t he mean what he says?” Molly asked, resigned. “Isn’t that his thing, yeah? Always says exactly what he’s thinking?” John grimaced, not quite knowing how to refute that logic. It was pretty sound to him.

                “C’mon Molly, he just gets this way when he’s frustrated. This case is tough and he’s stressed…” John trailed off as Molly looked up at him with big, red, shining eyes. That look made something clench in John, never one to see females in pain.

                “Oh, Molly,” he sighed sadly, pulling her into his arms. He murmured calmly in her ear as he rubbed little circles in her back soothingly. As her whimpering shudders started to subside, she gently pulled away. She smiled gratefully at John, wiping her tearstained cheeks with a slight hiccup. They stood in companionable silence for a moment, before Molly spoke, her voice quiet and scratchy from spilt tears.

                “Why is he so cold?” she asked, eyes searching. If anyone could say why Sherlock acted and felt the way he did, it would be John. “How can anyone care so little? Be so cruel?”

“No, Molly, he’s not cruel—“

“How can you say that?” Molly asked indignantly. John wasn’t even upset at her temper; he was happy to see that spark back in her eyes, even if it was due to his boyfriend being a total prat. “Everything he’s ever said to me has been cruel, unless he wanted something from me!” she continued.

“That’s not true and you know it.”

“He told me my boyfriend was gay.”

“He thought he was being kind. And he is a killer, so your break up is hardly a valid point here,” John reasoned.

“And Christmas?” Molly continued, her cheeks tingeing at the embarrassing memory, eliciting a wince from John as well.

“That started as an attempt at being social,” he defended. “And he apologized immediately. And without being told too, which for him is a pretty big deal.”

“Yeah, well, that doesn’t take back what he said,” she said to the floor under her hospital approved footwear.

“Molly, you know better than most what a good man he can be,” John said, reaching out to hold her arm affectionately. “He cares, I promise you he does. He just doesn’t know how. He never cared for so many people before; for anyone really. It’s all very new to him, and he’s struggling to understand it. You just have to give him some time, and as much patience as you can muster. It’s not easy for him either, this.”

“He seems to care for you well enough,” she replied sullenly, not as jealous now as she had been before.

“Yes, he does,” John said, ducking his head and nudging her chin so she’d meet his eyes. “And it wasn’t easy for him to get to where he is with me. But he worked hard, and he opened up a little bit, and he let himself care. And that’s how I know he care for you, too. There are very few people Sherlock lets himself care about; not a lot of people work their way into that fortress of a heart he’s got somewhere in there.” Molly looked away again. John continued, unperturbed by her doubt.

“He comes to you for help with experiments. He doesn’t even ask anyone else about hat king of thing. He thinks you’re a smart one, which is high praise coming from the like of him.” That earned him a slight quirk of thin, pretty lips and John sighed, relieved, and hoping Molly never repeated this to Sherlock; he’d deny everything, despite it’s evident proof.

“Sherlock didn't grow up being loved. He didn't experience care and concern. You should see him with his brother! They’re cold and polite, like strangers at a dinner party, not like blokes who grew up together. And now that he’s beginning to care, now that he’s starting to let some feelings in, he feels as though he’s breaking inside, cracking, turning into something very new and very scary. He’s struggling with this new heart he’s growing, and it’s not going to be easy for him to come to terms with the fact that affection isn’t just for the weak. It’s our job to show him how strong our love makes us. If we don’t, he’ll never know. And living like that? Forever? That would be cruel.” John gave Molly’s arm another squeeze, hoping this woman he had begun to think of as a sister (a proper one, one who knew and liked him) could see his words for the truth they were.

She looked up at him, wiping fresh tears on her coat sleeves. Another addition to John’s list of reasons why he respected Molly Hooper; she may have cried, but she never sobbed. There was a quiet dignity in the way Molly handled her pain. She hadn’t pushed John and Sherlock away in jealousy, she had acted like and adult and adapted. John thought that the world simply didn’t have enough Molly Hoopers.

Molly took a deep breath and, looking very young but every determined, took John’s outstretched hand. Together they walked back to the lab Sherlock was currently working in. They dropped hands when opening the door and Sherlock looked up with what John could see was his “secretly pleased, but I’ll pretend I’m not” expression. Seeing the knowing look on his soldier’s face, Sherlock did a good job of collecting his features into an aggravated scowl, apparently peeved at the pair for interrupting his work.

John, however, noticed that he didn’t really begin working in earnest again until quickly assessing Molly, something John recognized as looking for damage. He frowned at the sight of her tearstained cheeks and sleeves, but nodded minutely when she smiled reassuringly at him. John could still see tension in back and shoulders, however. Tension that, John noticed, melted away almost immediately as John settled in his spot just behind Sherlock, not touching but close enough to feel the warmth from his body. And for Sherlock to feel his.

Without a word, Sherlock went back to his work in earnest. His long, slender fingers deftly switched slides, added chemicals and manipulated the lenses of the scope. Occasionally he would look up and stare at nothing as he silently considered this or that. He _humph_ ed softly to himself, picking up a vial of blood (from whom John did not know). He mumbled something incoherent to himself before straightening up quickly, head swiveling to Molly. She had set herself quietly across the large lab table, working on something of her own. When Sherlock looked at her, he surprised John by staying silent, choosing to wait for Molly to look up at him instead of immediately demanding attention. John smiled with pride at the back of his lover’s uncharacteristically patient head.

“Sherlock?” Molly asked, looking up and starting slightly at meeting his beautifully piercing gaze so suddenly.

“Yes, Molly. Could you help me with something?” He asked politely, but without the charming, manipulative smile he wore to con her into helping; instead opting to just use Sherlock, giving her a chance to decline. Taken aback, Molly only nodded her head, eyes wide with shock and mouth slightly open. John beamed.

“Could you take this blood sample and spin it for me? I need it separated for an experiment.” He asked. She nodded again, coming around to take the vial, smiling at him sunnily and scurrying off to another lab to do as he had requested.

It was quiet for a moment, but John felt almost as if his pride and love could be heard spilling from his grin.

“That was very good of you, Sherlock,” he said happily, stepping close enough to bump his chest against the other man’s shoulder.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he replied simply, looking into the eyepiece of the scope.

“Yes, you do,” John said, leaning in to brush a light kiss over his temple. Sherlock stiffened imperceptibly.

“You smell like her,” he said, his tone a mixture of curiosity, jealousy and confusions; as he couldn’t figure out why one person’s scent on another would promote any emotions in him. Yet, anyone’s sent on John made him suddenly uncomfortable.

“I gave her a hug,” John said simply.

“A long one,” Sherlock stated, turning to look at John, expression still indecipherable.

“A long one,” John agreed to the question that wasn’t quite a question.

“Why?” Sherlock asked, curiosity winning out as he studied John’s face, realizing that the jealousy was silly and completely unfounded. This was John, after all.

“She’s my friend. Friends hug occasionally,” John explained. Sherlock spun bodily on the stool, facing him fully now.

“You hug me,” Sherlock said, attempting to draw parallels.

“There are all kinds of hugs.”

“What kind was yours with Molly?” John took a moment to think.

“A comforting one.” Sherlock seemed to contemplate this.

“You couldn’t've said something comforting?”

“I did,” John affirmed. “But sometime you want to say something you don’t know how to.” This made Sherlock very introspective and after a moment of silence he went back to his work; beautiful fingers scratching ugly notes on a sideways notebook.

Twenty minutes later, when Molly returned the sample and Sherlock studied it a little, presumably reaching some sort of a conclusion, John and Sherlock were walking closely, but not touching, down the hall, escorted out by Molly. Reaching the door and going separate ways, John said a fond goodbye to Molly. When she turned to wave bye to Sherlock he surprised her by stepping forward and wrapping her into a momentary and awkward hug.

He released, turned and began walking away before she even realized what had just happened. John waited a second longer to see the smile bloom across her face before he smiled in return.

“Told you,” he said softly and playfully, before jogging to catch up with his boyfriend, tangling their fingers together and swinging their collective arms happily all the way home.


	4. He is Beautiful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SMUT! Very introspective on Sherlock's part, not so much what John thinks but what he does and says in this one.

4.

In the seven weeks and 2 days that John and Sherlock had been intimate, they’d always fucked the way Sherlock liked it. Hard and fast, pressed against walls and bent over furniture. There were always teeth and nails and it was always over within a matter of moments. John was not opposed to sex like this; in fact, as with all manners of fucking, John was quite adept at it. He enjoyed the speed, the pressure, the _clash_ of it all and he very much appreciated Sherlock’s hunger for it.

However, John Watsons was also a very kind and gentle man who had, incidentally, found himself very much in love with the tall, lean beauty currently spread out beneath him.

Things this night had begun quite the same as they normally did. A case had just been solved and they had both just narrowly evaded death. They rushed into the flat like they were raiding it, clothes and shoes flying, mouths and bodies crashing into each other. Within seconds, they were naked and entangled on Sherlock’s bed. The sheets had been flung back only second before the detective himself was similarly tossed down, bouncing once on the bed before wrapping arms and legs around the soldier who held him there.

Sherlock was in such a hurry, as usual, already pressing spit slicked fingers into himself; not waiting for John or proper lubrication, too eager to get to the main event to be bothered with menial things such as talking or foreplay. When John brushed a lock of sweat-drenched hair from Sherlock’s face, he saw something that gave him pause. Sherlock’s eyes were dark and shining, lit from within by overwhelming hunger. But there was something else there as well, something that didn’t seem quite right. Sherlock’s eyes, and then as John paid attention, his actions as well, reflected a panicky sort of franticness. He attacked John’s mouth and body as if he were afraid they’d be taken away from him, as if he only had mere moments to reach his summit or all would be lost.

It was this look, this tone that John was suddenly aware of, that had him changing his entire mindset of the night. He’d been dying to make love to Sherlock for a while now; slowly and carefully attending to his every want and fancy. But he had always ended up swept away by the crazed sex-tornado that characterized an aroused Sherlock Holmes. Not tonight, though, he promised himself, and set to work regaining some semblance of control over this situation.

Sherlock had spent barely any time preparing himself, and yet the twin heels digging into John’s back, and the growl emitting from Sherlock’s throat made it very evident that he believed himself to be ready and wanted John to get on with it already. Having his mind made up, however, John resisted, choosing not to give in to Sherlock’s demands and sinking into his hot, waiting body.

“John,” Sherlock said roughly, his legs tightening around John’s waist. “Go, I’m ready.”

“Wait a second, love,” John said, extracting himself from the cradle of Sherlock’s hips, sitting back on his heels between his thighs. “Let’s slow things down a touch, yeah?”

“No,” Sherlock frowned. “I want you now.” He wrapped a hand around the back of John’s neck and pulled him down into a bruising kiss. John let him, but still held his body above that of his lover’s. Pulling his lips from the kiss, John redirected them to Sherlock’s neck, ghosting them down over his skin, dusting light kisses and warm breath from ear to shoulder. Sherlock groan-growled John’s name and his hands and heels pulled at John with painful strength, arching his back and lifting his hips to achieve the bodily contact John was denying him.

But John merely pulled back again, his hands sliding down Sherlock’s sides to rest on his hips, murmuring lowly and soothingly as the frantic hunger in Sherlock’s eyes and hands grew almost frightened in his movements and noises.

“Sherlock, darling, calm down,” John said smoothly, thumbs stroking Sherlock’s prominent hip bones.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock asked, his voice breathy but still heart-clenchingly deep.

“I’m doing this right,” John whispered, lowering his body back down to hover over his partner. “Don’t you move, and don’t you rush this,” John warned. “Let me do this for you.”

A frustrated, anxious growl burst from Sherlock’s lips, but John was quick and grabbed both his wrists, pinning his hands to his sides. He held him there for a moment, waiting for his struggles and complaints to subside. As Sherlock settled underneath him, a begrudging and mistrustful look on his face, John dipped his head lower, returning his lips to the salty sweet skin of his lover. He pressed chaste, light kisses to Sherlock’s shoulders and all across his chest, blowing air teasingly across both nipples and into the grooves of his clavicle.

“So soft,” John said quietly to the skin of Sherlock’s shoulder. “Softest skin I've ever had the privilege of kissing,”

The desperate, needy keen that came from Sherlock’s throat almost unraveled the very heart in John’s chest as he came to the conclusion that no one had ever done this for Sherlock before.

Slowly, John released his grip on Sherlock’s wrists, freeing his hands to do with as he pleased. He was happily surprised when Sherlock simply wrapped his arms lightly around his back—not pulling him closer, just holding him near. John turned his lips to meet Sherlock’s once more, this kiss more gentle and loving than any they’d ever shared before. Before long, John pulled back again.

“Amazing,” he whispered, his lips gently stroking Sherlock’s as he spoke. “You taste exquisite. Every part of you. I could taste you all day.” Sherlock moaned, kissing him again, frantic hunger finding its way back into the bed. The hands on his back turned to claws and the relaxed legs on either side of him tensed up.

“Hush, love, hush,” John soothed, hands running comfortingly across Sherlock’s ribcage. “None of that. Easy. Easy,” he crooned. After a moment, Sherlock seemed to obey the whispered command, relaxing once again, eyes shuttering closed as his head fell back against the pillow. “That’s right, you beautiful man,” John praised, dragging his words and lips lower down Sherlock’s body. “God, you’re gorgeous,” he said against Sherlock’s stomach, pressing increasingly open and wet kisses down the center line of his abdomen.

“John,” was all Sherlock managed to say as the man in question dipped his head between the other’s thighs, dragging his tongue along the length of his shaft.

“Beautiful, absolutely breathtaking,” John murmured against the hot, darkened skin of Sherlock’s erection. “Most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” John’s running stream of praise was cut off as he sucked Sherlock’s achingly hard member into his mouth, twirling his tongue and stroking with one hand. Distracting Sherlock by drawing him in deep, John’s other hand found the bottle of lube and managed to pour some onto his fingers. After several long, sucking pulls, John released Sherlock from his mouth, turning to similarly lave kisses and compliments against each of his balls.

“You’re divine, Sherlock, you truly are,” John said as he bit lightly at the skin on the inside of one perfectly pale, strong thigh. Sherlock gasped and his hips undulated, providing the perfect opportunity for John to slip one well-lube finger into Sherlock’s entrance. The gasp turned to a moan and the bite turned to a kiss as John caressed and licked and loved every inch of Sherlock he could reach.

“John, please,” Sherlock said on a whimper when John added a second finger, twisting and stretching, scraping across that tight bundle of nerve John never had trouble finding.

“Don’t rush it,” John said, pressing the words into Sherlock’s hip. He trailed his tongue lazily all the way up his lover’s flushed and quivering form, curling behind his ear with a flick so indecently delicious it elicited a full-body tremor.

“God, please, don’t stop,” Sherlock said.

“Never,” John whispered reverently. “You’re too damn stunning.” Sherlock sighed at his praise and his promise, before arching as he added a third finger.

“Please, John, please fuck me,” Sherlock pleaded, his hands on his back desperate and clenched.

“No, love, not yet,” John returned, brushing kisses over the sweat beading on his boyfriends brow.

“I’m begging,” Sherlock said, his voice desperate and helpless sounding.

“It’s not about making you beg,” John said quietly into the shell of his ear, as he extracted his fingers from the heat of his lover’s body, lining up his cock to take their place. “Its about making you see.”

“See what?” Sherlock managed to gasp out as the head of John’s cock pressed gently at the ready ring of muscle.

“See how perfectly lovely you are,” John said, voice barely above a breath as he steeled himself to push slowly into Sherlock’s body. Groans neither men could control ripped through their chests, leaving their throats raw as they finally came together, connecting in the most genuine and intimate of ways.

Sherlock whimpered below John, hands frantically pulling at him, scrambling and scratching, searching for purchase along John’s sweat covered back.

“Go, John, move,” he urged. But John paid his words no heed, choosing instead to stay fully seated inside Sherlock’s body, his hand coming up to stroke his hair, treading through and twirling the locks around his fingers. “John, please,” Sherlock said, his voice quiet as he made the valiant effort to relax his whole body, lying lax and pliant beneath John. Pleased by Sherlock’s compliance, John slide himself out with a slowness so achingly full of promise, Sherlock had to hold his breath to keep from crying.

“That’s right, love,” John commended, sliding back in equally slow. “Feel that?” he asked, continuing his slow, smooth ministrations.

“Yesssss,” Sherlock hissed. “Oh, yes, right there, perfect John, righ—ahhh!” He gasped, eyes flying open and hips bucking upwards as John’s cock drug along his prostate, lewdly long and hard inside him. John pushed his hips back down, clearly not trusting Sherlock to disrupt his rhythm, forcing him to stay still and accept the unending, lavishing attention he’s flooding him with.

Sherlock tossed his head back, eyes scrunched closed. There was just so much to feel, so much to understand. Hard and fast was manageable, all the pleasure concentrated in the rough, punishing thrusts and then done in minutes. But this? Being surrounded by John on all sides? It was almost too much. John kept his strokes long and deep, making Sherlock feel as if he were endless inside him. The arm baring John’s weight rested just under Sherlock, his fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck, cradling Sherlock’s shoulder in the crook of his elbow. His other hand slide all over Sherlock’s body, creating the illusions that he was surrounded on all sides, all by John.

And then there was his voice. The whole time John was pleasing Sherlock, gliding in and out of his hot, wet, inviting entrance, John was talking to him. Murmuring to him in his sexy, breathy voice, extolling his beauty, his brains, his very being.

“Goddamn, Sherlock, you’re so fucking perfect,” he’d say, voice quivering and hitching as he pressed himself deep inside his lover. “Everything about you, God, I wouldn’t change a thing.” He groaned as Sherlock tightened around, drawing him in closer. His breath fanned across Sherlock’s skin, heating and cooling him. His hands covered every inch of him, trailing from his fingertips clutching the edge of the mattress to the toes curled against John’s leg. And his words wrapped around him, caressing him inside and out. “Bloody brilliant, fucking beautiful, you are, you gorgeous thing, you.”

 It was so much, so much sensation, so much attention, so much… love. Pure, unadulterated love, flowing out of John with every move he made.

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open with the realization of what John was doing. This was making love. This was love. Sherlock felt his heart rate and breathing kick up a notch, the heat pooling in his groin given a whole new significance as he understood that he was making love for the first time ever.

“John,” he whispered the name like a prayer. “John, john, _johnjohnjohn, my John.”_ His lover hummed his response, dropping his head to rest on Sherlock’s shoulder as he continued rocking into that tight, welcoming heat. Sherlock wrested his hands from the sheet beneath him, wrapping them around John instead, pulling his face up towards his to kiss him, deeply and fully. His hips rolled up to meet John’s smooth thrusts, fitting effortlessly into the rhythm just as his lips slotted seamlessly with John’s.

“I see,” he breathed into John’s mouth, their bodies perfectly in tune, waves of pleasure crawling lazily up his spine, making his whole being buzz like a live wire.

“God, Sherlock, how couldn’t you have?” John asked on a groan, his thrusts gathering speed without losing the depth and length of them that made them so earth-shatteringly satisfying. “You’re perfect, everything about you, so goddamned beautiful.” He growled, his voice pitched so low it seemed to reverberate in Sherlock’s chest and rattle his teeth.

“I see,” Sherlock said again, because it was as close as he could get to what he really meant to say. John didn’t seem to need to hear it, too busy exalting the wonders of Sherlock Holmes.

“So fucking lovely, Sherlock,” he breathed. “Perfect skin, so much beautiful skin. You’re so tight, God, you’re amazing, you feel so perfect.” Sherlock could no longer form words, his body overwrought by the sensations John’s loving attentions were provoking while his mind was enveloped in the glowing words of reverent praise John was painting him with. He could only whine and whimper, canting his hips up into the careful undulating of John’s strokes, and try not to scream when John finally took him in hand.

“John,” he moaned, one syllable taking a lifetime to find its way to completion.

“Fantastic, love, bloody brilliant,” John heaved, the tension in his spine telling Sherlock he was just as close as he was. They ground together, pushing and pulling, creeping closer and closer to the inevitably bone-shaking orgasm John had worked so hard to bring them. Sweat dripped down from John’s nose, running down Sherlock’s neck in erotic rivulets.

“Close, John, so close,” Sherlock whispered, his back bowing as John cranked him higher and higher.

“Go, baby, go. Come for me, Sherlock, God, please,” John urged, stroking harder, his rolling thrusts grinding against his prostate each time, undoing him more and more with every passing second, until there was nothing left but the feeling of John. John, everywhere.

He fought to keep his eyes open, knowing John would be coming soon, and he wanted to see it, feel it, hear it, he wanted to experience it with him. Their first time making love, he wanted to come together.

“With you,” he choked out, clenching tightly around John, pulling him over the edge. Sherlock came with a cry, his whole body seizing with the most complete, most gratifying, most sustained orgasm of his life. He felt like he came for forever, anchored to the world only by John’s arm underneath him, his finger’s clenched in his hair, his growl in his ear. Their bodies were shaking, falling together and falling apart.

They collapsed down to the mattress, tangled in sweat and skin and silky come.

“Amazing,” John mumbled, face down in the pillow by Sherlock’s head. “Fucking amazing.”

Sherlock couldn’t speak.

“Best,” John panted. “Best… I’ve ever… had. You’re the best… most amazing… most gorgeous bloody thing I’ve ever had.” John needed Sherlock to know, needed him to understand how much he meant, how very beautiful he was. “You are beautiful.”

Sherlock merely shuddered, spent and overwhelmed, turning on his side to cuddle into the warm, safe heat of the man he might very well be in love with.


	5. He does Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John jumping to Sherlock's defense, like the loyal soldier he is.

5.

“So, how’ve you been?” John asked, conversationally, trying to stave off the awkward silence that seemed to have pulled up a third chair, obviously intent on staying for lunch.

“Things have been good,” Harry said with over exaggerated happiness. “I met a new girl.”

“Oh yeah?” John said, feigning enthusiasm. “That’s it for Clara then, hmm?”

“Yes, John,” she said, her pleasant facade evaporating quickly. “That is usually what a divorce means.”

“Right, yeah, of course. Good for you, Harry, I'm sure this new one is lovely,” John said, really not wanting to fight. He just wanted to get through this little checkup of hers and get back to Sherlock. He had been quite cross to find John leaving the flat, and had promised him an irresistibly appetizing reward if he hurried home.

“She is,” Harry said defensively, and John sighed. Typically, when Harry got into a mood, she stayed that way. For hours.

“Where’d you meet her?” John asked, trying for a supportive tone.

“My AA meetings, actually,” She answered, looking down at her salad, though John knew she was secretly pleased. Pleased that she was still going, pleased that she’d found someone to go with, and what she was most pleased with: She knew she was making her brother proud.

“Wow, Harry, that’s great!” John said, not having to strive to fake a happy tone. He was genuinely happy with his sister now.

“Thanks, Johnny,” She said, grinning up at him. 

Silence lapsed again, but it wasn’t awkward this time. They ate quietly and companionably for a couple moments. Before Harry had to ruin it.

“So, how’s Sherlock?” Harry asked with fake nonchalance. John sighed again. This was one very _fake_ conversation.

“Harry, just don’t,” he said, knowing very well what Harry thought of Sherlock. There was nothing innocent about that inquiry, she just wanted a reason to spout on about how much better John could be doing. John knew how this would end, and he was very uninterested in having it out with Harry over lunch. Sadly, they were too old to end arguments with headlocks and yelling for mum.

“But, John, I've been watching the news, and I heard…” Harry kept talking, but John stopped listening. It was the same every time, he didn’t need to hear which case Harry disapproved of this time.

“Harry, would you please just—“

“No, John!” Harry cut him off, raising her voice, and John was happy they’d chosen to sit outside on the patio. Their row would attract less of an audience out here. “I'm not going to let you risk your life chasing this guy around just ‘cause you think you’re in love with him!”

“Okay, stop it right there!” John slammed his palm on the table, not about to listen to anyone downplay whet he and Sherlock had.

“But really, Johnny,” Harry continued exasperatedly. “If he loved you half as much you love him, he would never put you in the situations that he does.”

“He doesn’t _put me_ anywhere, we work together. We are partners. And he loves me, just as I love him.”

“Are you sure about that, Johnny?” Harry asked dubiously. “Does he ever say it?”

“He doesn’t have to,” John said, assured and unwavering.

“Which is another way of saying no, no he doesn’t ever say he loves you.”

“Yes, he does, Harry,” John said, angrily. “He says it every day. In what he does, what he says, how he talks. He loves me Harry, he loves me enough that he doesn’t have to say it, I just know.”

“How can you know if he never says so?!” Harry asked, incredulity and pity making her voice high and her eyes sad.

“I know because when I wake up in the morning, he’s already made us tea and toast, even if half the time he doesn’t eat.”

“That’s hardly love, John,” Harry dismissed.

“If I'm having a nightmare and he’s not sleeping, he’ll play my favorite songs on his violin until I wake up and calm down. He won’t ask me about them, but he’ll listen if I want to talk. After a long day at work, he’ll lay in bed with me.” Harry scoffed and pulled a grimace. “You don’t understand, the man almost never sleeps. But he, he who thinks his time is the most important in the world, will lay with me until I nod off, because he knows I like it.”

“But does he say he loves you?” Harry challenged.

“Last week, when we were on a case, and some wanker had a gun to my head, you know what he did?”

“The fact that you had a gun to your head is only helping my point!” Harry very nearly shrieked, eyes wide with fear for her brother; for the horrible things he got himself into, and for the arrogant git leading him there.

“Do you know what he did?” John asked insistently, his fists clenched on the table.

“What? What did he do?” Harry asked with a sigh.

“He told them to take him instead. He traded himself for me. He could’ve left, he could’ve run off, called it in and waited for the cops to get there. But he didn’t. He not only stayed there with me, he traded himself for me. He made himself a hostage so I could go free. He didn’t just risk his life for me, he _gave_ his life for me! How is that anything other than love?” John demanded, heart swelling at the memory.

“How did that end?” Harry asked, leaning forward on the table.

“What do you mean?”

“How did that end? With the case.”

“The guy grabbed Sherlock…” John began slowly.

“And?” Harry asked, as if she already knew the answer.

“We got away. We caught the guys, got out safely, went home and made passionate, sweaty love,” John said, mostly out of spite. (Maybe Sherlock was rubbing off on him.) Harry grimaced, pretending to gag at the image.

“How did you get away?” She asked, after wiping her mouth and collecting herself.

“That’s not the point,” John said, crossing his arms and looking past Harry, over her shoulder and down the street.

“How did you get away?” Harry asked again, knowing the answer she’d get, and John knew she wouldn’t give up until she heard it.

“I might’ve shot the guy in the head,” John said on a sigh, giving in to shut his sister up.

“With a gun Sherlock knew you had, and a shot Sherlock knew you could make,” Harry said, leaning back with an annoying air of self-satisfaction.

“That doesn’t change the fact that he did it, Harriet!” John exclaimed, hands flying up. “You didn’t see his face. He was afraid. Sherlock Holmes was genuinely, properly afraid. Because _I_ was in danger. He never worries about his own life, sometimes he doesn’t even remember he’s mortal. But when _I'm_ in danger? When _I_ get taken, or threatened? He worries, he frets, he even panics!”

“You shouldn’t be getting kidnapped and held at gunpoint every other week, John!” Harry said, not afraid to admit she worried over her brother more than any sister should have to.

“I was in the Army, Harry, this is hardly new,” John scoffed, knowing better than to tell his sister that a not-small part of him enjoyed the danger and thrived off the thrill.

“Oh my God,” Harry said, dropping her head into her hands. “It’s all about his stupid job for you two, isn’t it? It’s not even a proper job, and he would give everything for it!”

  “You’re wrong. I used to think the same, but know I know better.” John smiled, mostly to himself, remembering the face Sherlock gets when he finds himself with a particularly clever case. John liked seeing him happy when he was on a case. But since they’d been together, John had seen plenty of perfectly joyful grins out of that man that had had nothing to do with a grisly murder.

“He says he doesn’t care about anything but the Work,” John continued. “He once told me he was married to the Work. Says he’s a sociopath, and that caring is weakness. But he put all that aside the other week when I got sick. He put away all the case files, he ignored all of Lestrade’s texts. He even made tea and did the shopping! He quit the job, suffered the boredom, for three whole days, just to take care of me.”

“But what does any of that matter if he can’t even say he loves you?” Harry asked, tiredly, like arguing about _John’s_ boyfriend was more exhausting for _her._

“He doesn’t have to tell me. He’s not good with words and emotions. He’s not used to having to say what he’s feeling because he’s not used to feeling these kinds of things. But he trusts me to know. He trusts that I know he loves me, because he’s doing everything he can to show me he does. And, honestly, Harry, I don’t give a fuck if you approve of him or what we do.” John said, standing up, tossing a handful of notes on the table over his half eaten meal. “Because I don’t need him to tell me he loves me. He loves me because I know him well enough that he doesn’t even have to say it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This argument with Harry didn't come out exactly as strong as i wanted it too, but i didn't want to end up repeating a bunch of stuff from the previous chapters. Anyway, i hope yall liked it, and as always i would love to hear some feedback!


	6. He is Everything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And finally, we have Sherlock's response!

+1

 

“Why do you even invite him to these things?” Asked a very disgruntled Sergeant Donovan. She stood by the bar, ever faithful Anderson behind her, and a long-suffering Detective Inspector before her. Her shirt was untucked and her usual olive jacket was thrown over some chair somewhere, likely left to hang in the Lost and Found until the next night.

“Donovan, would you please?” Lestrade asked, dragging a hand down his face. “This is supposed to be a celebration.”

“Well no one wants him here, so why don’t you get rid of him?” Donovan asked, her words only slurring slightly as she leaned heavily on the counter, her typically well-kept curls frizzing up nearly a foot from her head.

“Try and remember where we are, Donovan,” Lestrade answered coolly, just about fed up with her animosity but long accustomed to holding his tongue. He worked with Sherlock, after all. “We’re in a pub. Not the Yard, not a crime scene, not your house. I couldn’t throw him out if I wanted to.” Lestrade downed the last of his drink and ordered another. “And frankly, Sergeant? I don’t want to. I like him!” Greg said, throwing his hands up in the air. “God help me!”

John and Sherlock were watching the exchange from across the pub, laughing to themselves more over Lestrade’s reaction than Donovan’s petty complaints.

“Don’t worry, love,” John murmured lowly, his face pressed close to Sherlock’s neck. “They can’t throw you out; they’d miss me too much.”

“Oh, you’re the draw here?” Sherlock asked with a grin, leaning away to look at John.

“Course I am,” the doctor answered assuredly. “They like me. Can’t stand you, but they like me.”

“Hmm, well John, it’s a good thing I have someone of your considerable charm on my side,” Sherlock said with an aggravated eye roll. John merely grinned, bumping his shoulder into that of his partner.

“Getting on right well, are yah?” Donovan asked snappishly, sidling up to John and Sherlock’s table.

“I’d say so, yeah,” John affirmed, sliding away from Sherlock to a more “appropriate for public” distance, ignoring the cruel edge to her not-even-slightly innocent question.

“Doesn’t it bother you, though, John?” She asked, leaning heavily on their table. Anderson had followed behind her, hands up and at the ready in case the alcohol finally took a toll and he’d have to play catcher. Lestrade quickly noticed the gathering, excusing himself from whatever conversation he was having and making his way over.

“Doesn’t what bother me, Sally?” John asked, dropping his head to the side and nailing her with a dazzling smile, trying his hardest not to start a row here. It had been a hard case, the kind that never ended well. But thanks to Sherlock, this one had. John was not about to let this angry, petty woman take that from them.

“Doesn’t it bother you that he’s not even fucking human?” She spat, clearly ignoring John’s attempts at diplomacy. Sherlock merely sighed.

“Supernatural theories now, hmm?” Sherlock sneered at Donovan. “My, how far you’ve fallen. Not that you were too smart to begin with.” Sherlock snorted. “As if the Yard had enough problems solving cases, follow Donovan’s lead and you’ll be chasing vampires.”

“Oi, now, let’s be civil,” Lestrade intervened, stepping between Donovan and Sherlock.

“Don’t worry, yourself, detective,” Sherlock said with rather uncharacteristic respect for the man. They’d done well today; even Sherlock understood the Yard’s good work. “John and I were leaving anyway.” Sherlock slid out of the booth, graceful as ever, John following slowly behind to better appreciate the view. God, he liked Sherlock in those trousers.

“He’ll never love you!” Donovan called after them, stumbling over herself, pouring half her drink on some poor stranger in her exuberance to continue a pointless argument.

“Donovan!” Lestrade reproached. Halfway to the door, Sherlock paused and turned to consider her coldly.

“He won’t! He can’t love anything! He’s said so!” Donovan continued to shout, drawing attention from the other Yarder’s in the pub.

“The fact that you’re even continuing this argument is a testament to your intelligence,” Sherlock retorted condescendingly. “Clearly I am capable of something so mundanely human as love.”

“Oh yeah?” Donovan called again, rising to his taunt. “Name one thing you think you genuinely love!” She challenged.

“Dear God, you are an idiot,” Sherlock muttered, making a show of pinching the bridge of his nose. “John. Obviously, I love John. Honestly, Donovan.”

“Yeah, that so?” Donovan prodded.  “Quick, name one thing you love about him.” Sherlock opened his mouth, Donovan stopped him before he could begin. “Something that doesn’t have to do with cases,” she qualified proudly.

Sherlock’s ready reply died on his tongue and his jaw snapped shut.

He seemed to pause, taking a moment to think. A moment too long, apparently, to please the court.

“See?!” Donovan shouted happily. “He can’t think of one reason he likes the man other than the fact that he’s useful on a case!” Sherlock frowned, and opened his mouth to respond. Whatever witty retort he had planned, however, was stayed by John’s hand on his elbow.

“Just drop it, let’s go,” He said, pulling him towards the door.

“But, John,” Sherlock resisted, clearly eager to win this argument.

“It’s fine, Sherlock,” John said, still pulling steadily towards the door, head down and walking with purpose. “You don’t have anything to prove.” John said. Sherlock started and frowned at what he deemed a strange non sequitur.

“Of course I have nothing to prove, but I have an argument to win and a sergeant to shame,” He looked over to John, interested in John’s insistence in leaving. John usually found his and Donovan’s banter amusing. Why not tonight? One look at John’s face, however, told Sherlock all he needed to know. John had his stoic, soldier’s face on, doing his best not to give away anything. But this was the man Sherlock loved; when distressed, there was very little Sherlock couldn’t suss out. This time was no different.

It was very clear to Sherlock that John didn’t think he could do it. John, every faithful, unwavering John, was doubting his love. ‘ _But no, it was more than that,’_ Sherlock thought _._ John knew he was loved, he knew he did. _‘So what was it then? Ahh, there it is!’_ John didn’t think that Sherlock could meet this particular challenged, not because Sherlock didn’t love enough, but because Sherlock wouldn’t know how to say it, would know how to communicate his love. And while John wasn’t surprised, Sherlock could just barely detect the lingerings of disappointment in his lover’s eyes.

“Apparently, I do have something to prove,” Sherlock said quietly, softly so only John would hear. Then he turned around, back in the fight and with more fire than ever. If John desired to hear him profess his love, then he will get his wish. Sherlock was nothing if not a doting boyfriend. (He did his best to ignore his sarcastic internal snort at the thought.)

“Thought of something yet?” Donovan jeered, making the mistake of thinking she’d already won.

“It’s not a matter of thinking of _something,_ ” Sherlock sneered, stalking slowly back towards the group. “It’s a matter of choosing which of the many aspects of John I love best.”

“Oh, is that so?” Donovan prompted. “Tell us then, what is it that makes Sherlock Holmes’ heart race?” Her voice dripped with contempt. That would have raised Sherlock’s hackles, but he found himself less concerned about her and more about John. The desire to prove her wrong had been steadily fading as he searched through his Mind Palace for his what he loved most about John. Spending even mere seconds in the rooms of his Palace dedicated to John had the power to calm Sherlock down from any negative emotion he was struggling with. Loving John calmed him, steadied him. John brought him solace.

If Sherlock was about to share what he loved most about John with Donovan, Anderson, Lestrade and half the team from the most recent case, people they would have to work with again, Sherlock wanted it to be impressive and final. But saying it in front of all these people AND John? It had to matter. It had to be genuine, and it had to be meaningful. John deserved as much. Whatever he chose had to be about John. He couldn’t pick something about John that was a tool he could use; his medical knowledge, his ability with a gun, his talent in bed. No, it had to be something that was totally and completely John. Something that displayed everything that John was, everything that Sherlock loved.

‘ _But what one thing could say so much?’_

The question had barely formed in his head before he had the answer. _‘Of course!’_ he thought. _‘Perfect!’_ Exiting his Mind Palace, he realized the majority of the pub had gone about their business, only a couple anonymous Yarders, Donovan, Anderson, Lestrade and his John were watching him, waiting for the conclusion.

“Well?” Anderson prompted.

“His scar,” Sherlock said proudly, nose up, straightening his jacket. Even through his preening, he didn’t miss the derisive laugh that rode a hiccup out of Donovan’s mouth or the confused frowns of Anderson and Lestrade. John’s face was a mix of perfect fear and wonder.

“Which scar?” John asked.

“The bullet wound,’ Sherlock said, the _‘obvious’_ being mostly subtext.

“Which bullet wound?” John asked, drawing surprised, impressed and appraising looks from anyone in earshot.

“’Which bullet wound?’” Lestrade parroted back to John in surprised concern, tempered with more than a little awe and respect. "Jesus, man, how many times have you been shot?!" Always the good friend, Lestrade was. This time, however, his concern was completely ignored.

“The one in your shoulder. The one that had you invalided from the Army,” Sherlock continued, biting his tongue on the ‘ _please, John, don’t be dull,’_ that threatened to follow.

“Of course!” Donovan barked loudly. “Of course the one thing you love about him is the one thing that almost killed him!”

“That’s not why I love it,” Sherlock said, eyes on John. “Although,” he continued, casting his gaze around the room. “I can’t lie, I’m rather grateful it’s there.”

“You’re “rather grateful” that your boyfriend almost bled out in the desert?” Donovan asked with a disgusted snort. “You’ve just proved my point, you're absolutely heartless! No doubt about it now!”

“I'm hardly finished, Donovan,” Sherlock said with as much contempt as one can put in a name. “If you think you can stay conscious long enough to hear it.” The officer merely snarled and swayed slightly in response.

“Alright, the scar?” Anderson interjected, rerouting the conversation back to its origins. “Why do you love a wound that almost killed him?”

“Because,” Sherlock began, eyes back on John’s. He looked rather concerned, like he was afraid of where this might be going. “It’s everything that John is.” John winced slightly, and Sherlock took a comforting step towards him. He knew what John thought about his scar, and he was eager to change his mind. But a look in John’s eyes showed his true fear of what Sherlock might be planning, afraid something so intimate of his might be used as a pawn in part of a play. Sherlock yearned to ease his concerns, to assure him he knew the significance of this. Sherlock wanted John to trust him not to mess this up. Seeing the unspoken question, the request for permission, in Sherlock’s eyes, ever-loyal John gave a slight nod of his head. And Sherlock was off. If ever he desired eloquence of speech, this was when he’d need it.

“I love John’s scar because it shows everything that John is. A soldier, a healer, a friend, a man, it’s all there, if you just know how to look.” Sherlock began a slow stride around the room, settling into his performance. “Everyone knows John is brave, the outcome of tonight’s case is in part due to his immense bravery. But what better proof of that that a bullet wound taken for your country? But not just for your country, for your friend? Not many people know the full story behind John’s injury, and I pride myself as being one of them.” Sherlock cast his gaze over to John, quickly reading that he had no desire for Sherlock to share his story with everyone here. An abbreviated version would do just fine, then.

“John was an Army Doctor, as even you simpletons must have gathered through the years you’ve worked with him. He had no reason to be out in the line of fire, he was a doctor, his job was in the medical tent. Why, then, was he ever in a position to be shot? John, brave and courageous John, often volunteered for missions, venturing out of the safety of his hospital zone, and following his fellow soldier out into battle. Any man can fight a war, but only the bravest will risk their lives for the sake of their friend’s. And only the most courageous will leave relative safety to follow a friend into the fray. It is not lost on me that John does the same thing for me nearly every week. I see John’s scar and I think of every time he’s followed me into danger, every time he’s risked his life and every time he’s saved mine. I see the upmost bravery and courage, such that no other man I have ever met could ever dream of having.

“John was shot in his left shoulder. An inch above his aortic arch and directly into his scapula. A high caliber round, the bullet fragmented into his shoulder, forcing both metal and bone shrapnel out the other side. In the middle of the desert, the middle of the war zone, and he was the only person for miles qualified to treat such an injury. The wound itself would’ve killed a weaker man. But John is strong, stronger than any of you idiots, and he not only survived the initial shot, but operated on himself satisfactorily enough that he survived until further treatment could be found. He lead the remainder of his team, many of them wounded, all of them treated by John, even though he was by far the worst off,”

“Well, Phillips lost a leg in that firefight,” John interjected, shifting uncomfortably under all the attention Sherlock’s fast and theatric storytelling was attracting.

“A leg you removed and a Phillips you saved one-handed and bleeding profusely?” Came the sharp response, accompanied by a beautifully quirked eyebrow. John shrugged, looking down at his shoes, his cheeks coloring prettily.

“As I was saying,” Sherlock began again with a quick grin at his beloved. “He was strong enough to endure two subsequent field surgeries and two bouts of infection, all before being returned home only to endure more surgeries and rehabilitation. Subsequently, his scar isn’t just a quarter sized puckering of tissue, no it’s much bigger than that,”

“Sherlock,” John said, eyes wide. He didn’t like his scar, especially the way it looked. It made him feel weak, made him feel ugly. Sherlock knew how wrong he was. He wanted John to know it, too.  Sherlock brushed his thumb across his cheek in a rare show of affection before continuing his pacing of the room. The majority of which was, at this point, thoroughly enthralled in Sherlock’s tale.

“John’s scar is not just the scar of a .40 caliber, hollow point, copper-jacketed bullet shot from approximately 100 meters by a counterfeit, black-market assault rifle. It’s that scar, layered over and over with the scars of countless surgeries required to remove the shrapnel, cut out dead tissue and implant metal plates and pins. Add to that the red, angry scarring left behind by multiple infections. John’s injury is not something mortal men were supposed to survive, and any other man wouldn’t’ve. But John is strong like no other man is strong. He’s strong in both body and mind. He was strong then because he had to be, and he’s strong now because he knows he can be. I look at that scar and I see the strength in a man that should’ve died, but didn’t because he refused to.

“In John’s scar I see his unwavering loyalty and his high moral standard. He went to war because that’s the kind of man John is. He fought, even when he didn’t have to, John fought because he could. He didn’t just sit in his tent and twiddle his thumbs while a war was on outside. No, he trained with his soldiers, he led his soldiers and he bled for his soldiers. It’s because of his pronounced feeling of moral obligation, to Queen and Country and to the men who fought beside him, that prompted him to learn to fight and to learn to shoot, skills that have saved us both countless times. John’s scar reminds me how John thinks, how he prioritizes, what is right and wrong for him. It reminds me that that scar is being worn by a good man, and was received when that good man did what he deemed right.”

Sherlock looked around at the audience he had accumulated, at Lestrade and Anderson’s shocked and awed faces and at Donovan’s cruel smirk that was slowly but surely fading into the dazed and unfocussed look one got when one was too drunk to comprehend what was happening. But none of that mattered to Sherlock, and he filed it away for further review, as the majority of his attention was placed firmly on John. He had stopped fidgeting uncomfortably, though his blush prevailed, and he was watching Sherlock in cautious awe. He seemed to be, at the same time, overjoyed that Sherlock could convey how much he cared for him, but also slightly fearful that all his grand storytelling was for some sinister ulterior motive that would leave John embarrassed and distressed. Because John knew that as much as Sherlock loved him, Sherlock loved a show. He loved the drama and he loved being right, and if he had to use his feelings for John as a weapon or a prop, he would.

But that wasn’t what this particular performance was about. As much as Sherlock played it up for the rest of the audience, this was for John. This was to show to John that Sherlock could show to the world just how much he meant to him. Because, while John would never ask for anything he didn't think Sherlock would give, John was a proud man and did not like being made to look like a fool openly in love with someone who did not love him in return. John knew who Sherlock was, knew he was a selfish bastard who cared too much about himself and how high of a pedestal the world would build him. And that why, through all of Sherlock’s kind and powerful words, John was still worried that this wasn’t for him at all, but all for Sherlock. Which, strangely enough, brought Sherlock to his last point. A point he hoped would answer John’s questions and soothe his fears, as this was the most honest thing Sherlock could ever give to him.

“And finally, the reason I love John’s scar the most. As you might’ve guessed, and as everything important to me is, this most prevalent reason is entirely selfish and entirely about me.” Anderson produced a rather unattractive snort and opened his mouth to make some snide but unimaginative remark. Luckily, for the maintenance of the already dangerously low IQ levels surrounding him, Andeson’s idiotic exclamation was cut short by a smart and quick slap on the back of the head by a very serious and very faithful Detective Inspector.

“The reason John’s scar is most endeared to me, is because it is owing to that scar, that wound, that bullet, that John is here with me now. That shot got John invalided from the army, cut off from the thrill of battle and sent home to struggle through the drudgery of civilian life. It was the worst day of his life,”

“Don’t you think getting shot and almost killed was the worst day of his life?” Anderson sneered, prompting a drunked laugh from a half-asleep Donovan, and a “Shut your goddamn mouth” from a pissed off Lestrade.

“No, you insipid creatin,” Sherlock casually tossed over his shoulder. “John would take bodily pain over being told he can’t do something any day. It hurt John far more to be thrown back into the dull and boring toil of everyday life than it did to be injured in the line of duty. Do you know him at all?” Sherlock ended with scorn. He huffed, tugging at his collar, before returning his gaze to John’s and continuing his spiel.

“It was the worst day of John’s life that proved to be one of the best days of mine, even though I hadn’t known it then. I am a man of logic, and I do not believe in frivolous ideas such as fate or destiny, but every night when I look at that scar I am strangely invaded by the thought that I am unbelievably _lucky_ that such an injury befell the man I love. Because if it weren’t for that shot, John wouldn’t be here. He wouldn’t have been looking for a flatshare, he wouldn’t have run into his old uni friend, he wouldn’t have been introduced to me, and I wouldn’t have met the one person I could learn to love and care for.” Sherlock’s pacings had brought him to a halt in front of his lover, and while he spoke to the whole room, he looked only at John, their fingers entwining purely of their own accord.  “The chances of any of that happening without that shot that sent John home to me is astronomical. I look at that scar and I thank it for being there. I’m glad John almost died on that day. Because if he hadn’t, I would never know what I now do of love. I am grateful for John’s scar. And you all can attest I am never grateful for anything!”

This declaration was met with very many affirmative grunts and a loud, drunken agreement from a slumped and drooling Donovan. But most importantly, it was met by watery eyes set in the broad face of the only person Sherlock Holmes will ever love. The depth of Sherlock’s emotional expulsions were beginning to catch up on him, and he saw their effect in John’s eyes. Sherlock was equal parts proud and panicked; proud that he had done right by John and even further earned his trust and faith, but panicked because he had never spent this much time dwelling aloud in his emotions, and was afraid if the flow was not stemmed now, it might not ever stop. Strangely enough though, that didn’t seem to mind Sherlock all that much, not when he could see the vast amounts of love and pride swimming in John’s eyes.

His stance and presence was so much different than when Sherlock first broached the topic of John’s scar. He held his head tall and proud, every bit the soldier he loved, and his smiled lightly now, content to watch the show his lover put on, knowing it was for him. Sherlock liked this John so much more than the one that sunk in on himself when Sherlock had described that scar. That perfectly beautiful scar.

“There’s another reason I am grateful for that scar, beyond its hand in bringing John to me,” Sherlock announced, commanding the attention of the room again and prompting a spark of interest in his lover’s eye. “Another purely selfish reason, of course,” Sherlock said with a grin. “I have a bit of a reputation for never losing arguments,” Sherlock said with an irritatingly smug smile. “A reputation every single one of you has been instrumental in building.”

“For the love of…” muttered Lestrade. He knew sensitive Sherlock couldn’t last for long.

“And that scar is the source of constant joy to me, because I know, without a doubt, even on my worst, most boring days, I know that that scar can provide me with a winning argument. An argument that I will never lose because I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that I am right.” Sherlock said proudly, his hand coming to rest on John's shoulder, right over his scar. His perfectly lovely, wonderfully sexy and absolutely _John_ scar.

“And what argument is that?” Lestrade asked.

 

“John thinks his scar is ugly,” Sherlock said in a quiet voice. “But I know it’s not. I know it’s the most beautiful thing in the world. Because it is just like him. It’s everything John is, and he is everything to me,”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this might not be as Sherlockian as many of the amazing Sherlock dialogues we have up in this wonderful fandom of ours, but I attempted to communicate a side of Sherlock no one ever really gets to see, so I hope you guys can appreciate it. I hope those of you who left me lovely and motivating comments are not at all disappointed by outcome of this work, and I hope did all you readers proud!


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